The same grace

Though it may appear that this wayward
stumbling is errant, choreographers
can see that it possesses the same grace
as a leaf fallen into concert with a steady
creek and its swerving currents of rapids.

Though the progress  of this thought
might sound to some like stuttering,
the listening blind know that it follows
the same pattern as rain streaming
in gusts against a windowpane at night.

. . . 

The twisting and weaving of a pea vine
intertwining with its invisible love
may appear to be without direction
or purpose, but students of tenacity
and sunlight know better.

. . .

Pattiann Rogers, Study from Right Angles
from Generations 

Click through to read the poem in full

Study from Right Angles

Though it may appear that this wayward
stumbling is errant, choreographers
can see that it possesses the same grace
as a leaf fallen into concert with a steady
creek and its swerving currents of rapids.

Though the progress of this thought
might sound to some like stuttering,
the listening blind know that it follows
the same pattern as rain streaming
in gusts against a windowpane at night.

Though the story may occasionally 
become dizzy and its cadence sporadic,
the hero of the tale spins with it
naturally like a funnel of dust across
a prairie, faltering, regaining 

The twisting and weaving of a pea vine
intertwining with its invisible love
may appear to be without direction
or purpose, but students of tenacity
and sunlight know better.

So this sudden ceasing,
this vanishing, might be called
death by some who are watching,
as with a shift of vision a tree
near at hand vanishes into the forest
surrounding.  Yet any witness born
to the vagaries of wildwoods
will see the same single being
still present and undiminished. 

About Jim

Night sky watcher; a mobile bit of earth's body. One foot lingering in Lower Cañoncito's piñon-juniper foothills at the southern tip of the Rockies, the edge of the Great Plains stretching away from the mouth of our little valley a couple miles downstream. The other foot re-rooting into the Land of the White Pines, home of my blood and bones, amidst the coastal plain and glacial hills and ponds of southern Maine, between the North Atlantic and the bones of the ancient Appalachian Mountains.

Posted on 2013/11/16, in Nourishing Words. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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